A Witcher In Westeros
by Raven Eyes1
Summary: "Step away from her" Geralt of Rivia, the legendary witcher, the white wolf of Kaer Morhen stood atop the tower of Thanned, staring down the spectral cavalcade, silver sword in hand. The warriors of the wild hunt turned and stared him down, barring the way between him, the king, Ciri and Benavents portal. A crossover fiction, more chapters and character appearances to come.
1. Chapter 1

A WITCHER IN WESTEROS.

"_Geralt, help me, they're coming for me, he's coming for me!" screamed Ciri as the King of the Wild Hunt advanced on her, sword in hand and eyes flashing lightning blue. The silver of his steel glowing dully in the light of the storm as thunder cracked and lightning sparked._

"_Step away from her" Geralt of Rivia, the legendary witcher, the white wolf of Kaer Morhen stood atop the tower of Thanned, staring down the spectral cavalcade, silver sword in hand. The warriors of the wild hunt turned and stared him down, barring the way between him, the king, Ciri and Benavents portal._

Geralt paced back and forth in the dank little cell he had been thrown into on his landing. As prisons went this one was not altogether that bad, he had seen far worse in the dungeons of the royal castle in Temeria. Here there was a view of the sea, no smell but the salt air and a nice subtle breeze that was both warm and cooling at the same time, some clean soft straw had been laid out for him to sleep on, the jailer had come twice with a plate of fresh bread and a cup of water, so far all Geralt felt he needed was a woman and a flagon of ale and he might as well be bedding down in a tavern for the night.

The witcher continued his pacing, rolling his aching left shoulder as he walked. The landing had been heavy but the ocean broke his fall, yet the weight of his swords threatened to pull him down underneath the waves and fill his lungs with salt water. Depending on the view of the individual his landing had not been so deep but instead had landed him in shallow waters, knocking his shoulder heavily and causing him a deal of discomfort.

Geralt had been lucky when the currents washed him on the shores of an unknown island, when he washed the salt and sand from his eyes he saw the great castle that stood tall and proud on top of the hill. At first he thought he had washed up on the shores of Ard Skellig in the Skellig isles but the smoking heat of the water, coupled with the glassy black rocks that lined the beach let the witcher know for certain that he was a stranger in a strange land.

When the troops came for him their banners were foreign and unknown to him, not the boars head coupled with the galleon and crown of the Skellig Isles. This one was a stags head inside a burning heart. At first they had been wary of him, they saw his white hair and pale complexion and immediately grew fearful, one pike man dropped his weapon, pointed his finger and screamed the word "Targaryan" at him.

Geralt had been befuddled by the whole set of circumstances, but discretion had been the better part of valour when he saw that he was outnumbered by roughly thirty to one so decided to unclasp his swords from his back and surrendered amiably.

For a day and a night he had sat in here, his thoughts plagued by one constant worry: Where were they, where were his friends. They had followed him through Benavents portal as the spectral king of the wild hunt chased Ciri, his Ciri, through the black vortex. Dandelion, Triss, Yarpen and Yennefer, his beloved, had not hesitated, not questioned, not thought twice as they followed him into the blackness and the unknown.

He emerged from the void, alone and falling.

The sounds of locks opening and footsteps marching down the corridor toward his cell were followed promptly by torch flames. Several heavily armed soldiers marched to his cell, in a few moments the door was opened and in they marched, clasping iron manacles around his wrists and forcing him out into the corridor.

"King Stannis wishes to see you" the lead soldier said as he marched

"Stennis, but we're nowhere near Aedirn; Aedirn doesn't even sit along the coast?"

"Does anyone know what the Targaryan is talking about?" said the lead soldier, looking at the witcher in utter confusion.

"What's a Targaryan, why the hell do you keep calling me a Targaryan?"

"Shut up!" the lead soldier shouted before clouting Geralt around the back of the head, the witcher knew better than to argue with a man who carried a long sword on his waist while he had nothing more to defend himself with than sarcasm. They lead him through the black corridors of Dragonstone, rising, always rising, up short flights of stairs then along long stretches of flat stone then up along more steps until they came to a pair of oak doors. Geralt could hear the winds of the ocean whipping fiercely against the stones of the old fortress , a lesser made castle rattle and rock from the force of the sea gale but this one held strong and firm.

The lead guard hammered the door fiercely then waited momentarily before the doors were pulled open. The guards lead Geralt into a large open chamber that had a most beautiful view of the sea, a balcony of three pillars left the chamber open to the elements, in the centre stood a table, carved into the likeness of a map of a world he had not seen before, now he knew that he was truly far from home.

His swords lay unsheathed, cold and naked on the table, ready for just the right moment, for just the right hand to wield them. Geralt was smarter than to allow arrogance override good sense, if they had left his swords bare to world then either wanted him to reach for his blades, giving them an excuse to cut him down or they were certain he would not lay a finger on them till he was permitted.

A slight man of middle years with thinning grey hair and a brown beard peppered with grey stood left of an unseen man sat in a throne like chair with his back to Geralt. The woman who stood to the right of the chair was a true beauty clad in red, her fire kissed hair shone bright almost glowing in the grey light of day that beamed through the pillars.

"Is he what they say he is?" asked the unseen man. The older man approached Geralt, arms folded and looking him up and down with a pragmatic glare, sizing the witcher up and down. There was something in the man's eyes that reminded Geralt of Crach an Craite, the sea boar of the Skellig isles, that same nobility seemed to resonate through the man, giving the witcher a sense of security.

"He certainly has the bearing your grace, but…"

"But what?" the man asked sternly.

"His eyes your grace, they aren't typical of the Targaryan look" Geralt looked away, if his eyes were some sort of sign to these people then it would be best to keep them as unnoticeable as possible. Not that he could.

"What's your name stranger?" asked the unseen man.

"Geralt, Geralt of Rivia"

"What sort of a place is Rivia, eh? Some festering, shit filled, dung heap, littered with thieves and whores in the arse end of the North?" the man in the chair was clearly trying to goad the witcher but was entirely unaware of who he was dealing with.

"I've never been there, so I wouldn't know"

"But your name's Geralt of Rivia" the older man said incredulously, "why would you take the name of a place you've never been?"

"Everyone has to be from somewhere? Even a castle has a name" Geralt said spitefully, the older man smiled at the witcher's veiled question.

"You're on the island of Dragonstone, seat of King Stannis of westeros, King of the Andals and the first men" Geralt stared blankly at the older man as he made his masters introduction. The older man shook his head and reached for Geralt's silver sword lying dormant on the table, he gave a few expert swings and felt out the balance, measuring the weight and feeling its poise in his grip. "What does a man need a silver sword for?"

Geralt looked first to the chair, where not a movement was made before he looked to the red woman. The crimson beauty stood and stared at him, her tight dress rippling as the sea wind blew through the circular chamber, her eyes seemed as though they wished to pierce straight through into his heart, to read him, to measure him but they were restrained. Geralt knew of sorcery such as this, he had seen it first hand, in the eyes of that bastard Vilgefortz, right before he killed him.

"Killing monsters" he said sternly. The older man laughed as he felt the blades edge before he slammed it back down on the table.

"And what monsters do you plan on killing with your silver sword ser?" King Stannis asked from his chair.

"Any I'm paid to kill"

"So you're nothing but a common sellsword?" Stannis said derisively. Geralt had never heard the term before but if it was anything like it sounded then he did not like the implication that he was a simple mercenary.

"I'm not paid to fight in armies your highness; I'm paid to kill monsters"

"Does that mean you don't kill men?" the older man asked almost in disbelief.

"Only when they try to kill me" Geralt replied. King Stannis finally rose from his seat and turned to face the Witcher, he was an older man of approximately forty years. His eyes were deep blue, stern and unforgiving, he possessed a broad shouldered physique that clearly came from swinging a sword. He had a dark beard that lined his jaw matching a thinning head grey black hair. Stannis turned to the red woman and tilted his toward Geralt.

Her movements were lithe and graceful as she walked toward him, the red and gold choker sat neatly around her neck and accentuated the beauty of her bust. Her figure was wrapped perfectly in a beautiful red silk dress that fit in all the right places. She raised her porcelain skinned hands and cupped his face as she stared intently into his catlike eyes.

Geralt did not know what she was doing but if his experiences with Yennefer where anything to go by then it was possible she was performing some kind of magic on him. After a moment she backed away, her face was a mix; there was confusion and slight terror as her hands went to her temple, a searing pain spiking through her brain as she leant against the table, her hands shaking from the horror of what she had just seen.

"Ser Davos…" Stannis said gesturing toward the red woman. Hesitantly the older man walked over to the red and sat her down on a large chair.

"What did you see?" Stannis asked standing over her and crossing his arms expectantly. The red woman looked up at the king, her eyes hard, cruel and unyielding.

"He's not of this world" her voice was like silk even as it trembled, it was sonorous and wholly exotic. There was an accent there that was enticing and set Geralt entirely on edge. It reminded him too much of Yennefer and his concern for her whereabouts was growing, just as his concern for his other friends grew; Dandelion, Triss, Yarpen even the scarred elf Iorveth, he was worried about them all, where they were and if they were safe. But it was Ciri, the child of destiny that he was most concerned for; if she was highly sought after back in lands he knew, then who knew what strangers in this strange land would want from her.

Fighting enemies you knew was one thing, fighting ones you did not was another.

"He's a beast slayer, a monster slayer, ghost slayer…" she took in a sharp breath and looked up at the Witcher, her eyes wide and disbelieving, "Dragon Slayer!"

Both King Stannis and Ser Davos turned and stared at Geralt with as much disbelief as the red woman, they could not believe what they were hearing but they knew better than to question the seer. Stannis walked over to Geralt and looked him up and down, his face never losing its sternness, his jaw locked in what looked like a scowl trying to turn itself into a smile.

"Not that I believe this Dragon slayer nonsense but…" he said as he scratched his beard, "how would you like a chance to earn your freedom?"


	2. Chapter 2

"…Ser Gregor Clegane, Queen Cersei, Meryn Trant, Dunsen…" Arya recited the death prayer in her cabin aboard the Titan's Daughter as it rocked slowly back and forth on the waves of the narrow sea. She had been surprised that the journey had been so quiet in her three days aboard the ship; back in winterfell, Maester Lewen had told her frequently of the rough storms that ravaged the narrow sea during the autumn and of the even worse ones that plagued the oceans by winter. The young Stark concluded that they must be still in summer or else the signs of harsh weather would have begun by now.

"…Valar Morghulis" she had finished her nightly ritual, her promise, her oath of vengeance. Right now on this ship bound for Braavos, she was on her way to where she could best learn the skills she would need to take the vengeance she craved, the place where the man known to her as Jaqen H'ghar would fulfil his promise to teach her how to take a life and cross those names off her list.

She rolled over in the cot of her private cabin and pulled the covers tight around her. She still could not sleep; there was something in the air keeping her awake as if right here and now she was meant to see something. Arya looked up at the ceiling of her cabin and tried her best to block out the sounds of Captain Terys's heavy footsteps across the wood, she could hear numerous Braavosi sailors shouting orders and japes at one another in their native tongue but this was nothing new or indeed unexpected.

Throwing the covers off herself in frustration, she stepped quickly over to the small cabin window and flung it open, letting in the clear rays of moonlight along with the fresh sea air. As she stared into the hypnotic sway of the waters, Arya began to lose herself in thought of the past; she began to remember all of the things she had lost, all the people she loved who had been taken from her, she thought of winterfell and of how much she loved her great northern home, she thought of Nymeria and wondered if what she saw of her beautiful wolf in her dreams was true and that she did indeed lead a pack of her own Direwolves back home in the North. Most of all, here on this ship full of men from Braavos, she thought of her dancing master and friend Syrio Forell and wished, even now, he were still alive to learn from.

Arya was pulled out of her revere by the ships mates shouting something in their native Braavosi she could not understand, there seemed to be quite a commotion going on as far as she could hear and so made her way to find out what it could be. There many dangers to traversing the narrow sea, Ironborn Pirates, Lysene pirates, Sellsails and a hundred other different dangers beside the weather and Arya did not want to run the risk of falling into someone else's hands after so recently escaping the hound.

The moment she opened the door she saw what troubled the sailors so much: A tear, a black hole in the sky surrounded by a dark storm that blew a strong wind toward the ship. It was as though the great Titan of Braavos had ripped apart the very heavens above and exposed what lay on the other side.

Arya ran to the prow of the ship and looked out at the slash; there was no rain surrounding it, only black skies and lightning which broke the waves before them.

"Captain, what's going on?" she shouted over the wind to the Braavosi next to her.

"How should I know, I've never seen such a thing as this!" he shouted back. Turning, he called out something in Braavosi to the man at the wheel and suddenly the ships course began to alter. Arya began to panic, she could not go back to Westeros, not yet, she was nearly there, the captain had told not two days ago that they would be at Braavos within the week and she could allow any sort of delay, not while she was so close.

She was about to turn to shout at the captain when something caught her eye; a great clap thunder, followed by a dark twisted shape within the clouds, almost as if there was someone or something in dark, spectral armour, riding a horse beyond the skies over the Narrow sea. Believing herself to be seeing things, Arya began to turn once more when a second giant clap of thunder rang out and something emerged from the tear.

She could not make it out at first and she struggled to see what it was even more-so against the battering of the wind, but as her eyes refocused she saw it was the figure of a person, freefalling into the sea.

"Captain!" Arya shouted as she ran over to the Braavosi and grabbed him by his belt. "There's someone out there, in the sea!"

"What of it?" he replied not turning.

"You have to help him!"

"I'm not going to risk my life or the lives of my men on the whim of a stranger, I cannot afford to lose anyone to the storm, not for a demon who fell from the sky!"

"You don't know that, you have to help!" she shouted back. The captain turned and looked down at her before looking out to the sea, the clouds were still black only now they had lost the fierceness of thunder and lightning. He could make out the figure floating in the ocean, limp, helpless and unable to fight the currents.

"No" he said shaking his head "I won't do it, not for a demon"

Arya removed the coin from her pocket and held it up in front of him, forcing him to look down at the coin. They both knew its meaning and what the price of disobedience might cost him.

"Valar Morghulis" she said, her voice heavy with dark overtones that sent a chill up the captains spine.

"Valar Dohaeris" he replied before shouting orders in Braavosi to his crew. The Titan's Daughter realigned its course and headed straight for the stranger floating in the sea, as soon as the ship made way alongside the figure floating in the water the captain sent his two sons to retrieve their new passenger. Arya looked down at the person she had had rescued on her insistence and tried as best she could to gauge her properly.

A young girl, only a year or two older than herself, hair the colour of freshly burnt ash; A tight tunic of black leather, decorated with metal studs, fitted around her upper body comfortably, a pair of brown leather breeches, now soaked through with sea water, hung to her legs tighter than they would if they were dry. A pair of knee high riding boots with a silver buckle on each covered what were, ostensibly, diminutive feet.

The most telling part was the swords strapped to her back, by the look of their weight they should have pulled the girl into the murky black of the narrow sea but by some miracle she lay here on the deck.

It took a moment but she did finally open her eyes; as the mysterious girl looked at her rescuers, she immediately jumped to her feet and drew a long iron sword from her back and took a defensive stance. She eyed them all with the wildness and caution of a cornered tiger, threatening to slice any who dared approach her with malicious intent.

"Where am I?" she asked, her voice sounding terrified and panicky. Arya stepped forward and raised her hands to calm the young girl but only after adjusting her belt so that her own sword, needle, now at the base of her back and out of sight.

"You're on a ship, the Titan's Daughter, bound for Braavos" she explained in a calm motherly tone. The girl looked at her surrounding, confused as to the meaning of Arya's words, as if she were somehow speaking a foreign language.

"Braavos, where's that? Is it anywhere near Cintra, near the Skellig Isles?" the strange names of which she spoke sent a ripple of uncomfortable murmuring among the sailors who stood watching the scene unfold in morbid curiosity. A crack of dying thunder rang out and the girl immediately pushed past the sailors fearlessly, sword in hand, to the prow of the ship; she gazed out at the sky as the rip closed itself, scanning the heavens as the last dying light of lightning flashed against the blackness above.

Turning she rushed at Arya who now hand one hand placed firmly on Needles hilt in case the girl actually was as insane as she looked right now.

"Did they follow me!" she demanded, "Tell me, did the Wild Hunt follow me through?"


	3. Chapter 3

"I hate these trees" Iorveth said as he scratched at the bandanna covering half of his face. It was late in the third day since his and Triss' emergence from Benavents portal, they had found themselves stranded in the middle of nowhere with no sign of anyone or anything around them. At first the red headed sorceress felt not a lick of concern for their predicament, if you were going to be stranded in a forest then the best person to have on your side would of course be an elf. The trouble was that Iorveth knew nothing of where they were, he did not recognise the flora, fauna or even the mighty oaks they passed along their wanderings; he could not find his bearings or even gauge the best path north, in essence, at this moment he was completely useless.

"They don't speak to me, none of them speak to me!" the elf kicked a dead stump and yelled in frustration, his voice carrying in echo through the emptiness of the forest.

"Are all elves as ill-tempered as you or did I just get lucky" Triss said walking ahead of him, brushing the leaves of low hanging trees out of her way as she marched.

"If you want to talk about luck, how about the luck that I fell into…" he replied, sneering from under his bandanna as he followed, "How ever did I let Gwynbleid talk me into going up to that accursed tower in the first place. As soon as he mentioned the hunt I should have just backed out of it and…"

"And what?" Triss snapped rounding on him sharply "stayed in the forests with your Scoia'Tael brothers, picking off whatever innocent Dhoine traders you could find along the road between Flotsam and Vizima. Oh yes very fucking noble Iorveth."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand Merigold, you are a Dhoine after all so your thinking is somewhat skewered on the matter" he replied.

"Well let me ask you this, if you hate all of us so much, why did you let Geralt talk you into protecting Ciri from the Hunt?" she said turning to look him in the eye.

"Respect" there was a moment between them, a moment where the boundaries of race, politics and religion broke down; a moment where Iorveth, for reasons unknown, allowed a Dhoine to see through to the other side of his shell, to the tiniest part of him that was still a noble elf at heart.

Something broke through the silence shared between the two of them, a groaning or perhaps a low growling; either way it was enough to snap Triss and Iorveth's attention back to the world around them. The elf unstrapped his bow from his shoulder and knocked an arrow, the Scoia'Tael commando scanned the area at large, noting every movement, every rustle of branch with his expert ability. Triss readied her staff, charging it with the powerful energies that she studied for years to command, only there was something wrong; she could feel the power flow through her body and edge outwards at her fingertips but it was a strain, more so than usual; it was as if the powers of the world she knew were hesitant in coming outward, as though they did not want to reveal themselves to the world at large.

"Help…" the voice was more guttural than a cry for help would normally sound and certainly more relaxed, "…I'm burning, he's burning me… Gregor… please… stop it!"

Triss's feet moved swiftly toward the sound, the branches snapped against her skin sharply as she half ran toward the cry for help. Thorns snagged her hair and tore at her clothing as she broke through the leaves and out into a clearing and to the source of the sound. A man, sat in front of a tree, his hands stained with blood that poured from a festering wound in his stomach but the most telling part of his appearance was his face; the skin on the left side was scorched, an old wound that had gone deep into the skull, welted and twisted and only partially covered by long greasy hair.

"Shit" Triss said under breath; she did not understand her own actions after that, she could not remember the reasons why or what had possibly compelled her to move; but before she realised what she was doing, Triss found herself kneeling down in front of the scarred man, whispering an incantation, power and energy flowed (albeit hesitantly) through her fingertips, pulling at his flesh, forcing back the blood flow and closing the wound.

"Sir…"Triss said in a rattled voice while holding his face in her hands. "…Sir, are you alright?"

The man's eyes fluttered behind his eyelids before he glanced out at her from under them. A look of relief or maybe happiness washed over him, a twisted and gnarled smile or as close as he could come to a one, stretched across his face.

"Little bird" he said in a gruff voice before passing out again.

"Shit!" Triss backed away and noticed one incredibly important fact, here in this open clearing she entirely alone, at least to the naked eye. Iorveth had disappeared and, like all elves, if he was here he was not about to make his presence known without a good reason. She had known Iorveth long enough to recognise when he was staying hidden.

Something was wrong, there was a dark presence in the air, and she could sense its movements. It was not alone either, the rustling of branches being touched by armour and drawn swords breaking against the bodies of men moving about in bushes.

"There's no need to hide" Triss said readying her staff and standing to defend her patient.

A tall lanky man with red hair and freckles was the first to emerge, a bow in hand with an arrow notched. He had not aimed yet but the look in his eye told Triss he was definitely ready to use it, as well as the short sword at his hip. Next to step forward out of the greenery was a tall fat man with grey hair and sagging skin, a faded red cloak covered dented and well used armour, his right hand hovered over a sword strapped to his back gave the impression that he was no dunce with a blade. The last to emerge was a young boy of no more than twelve years, shy and cautious with a tendency to hide behind the larger man's robes.

An assortment of various unremarkable and otherwise stereotypical men at arms, numbering at around fifteen; Triss was seriously outnumbered and she knew it.

"Hello there miss" the archer said in a cheerful voice. Triss regarded him cautiously, she'd met men of his sort enough times to know that if he and his friends weren't here for her then they were here for the scarred man: In her mind they were getting neither.

"Gentlemen" she said sweeping her eye across them all while at the same time looking for the dark presence she had sensed earlier, "I assume there's a reason all of you have found your way here, and not a coincidental one?"

"Did you hear that boys? The lady sounds highborn!" the older man said sending a rumble of chuckles and filthy remarks throughout the gathered men.

"She sounds like she's from Volantis" the shy boy said from behind the faded red cloak of his master.

"Is that right girl? Are you from Volantis?" he asked before un-notching a a skin from his waist and taking long, deep drink. Triss looked back at the man with confusion and curiosity, she'd never heard of anywhere called Volantis in any of the northern kingdoms nor anywhere in Nilfgaard, so the question that remained was; where the hell were they?

"Valar Morghulis?" the man asked, testing the waters to see if she would react.

"You've got the wrong woman here" she said sternly, "I'm from Maribor, I've no idea where Volantis is, or what it is?"

"Well my dear, we've no idea where Maribor is wither but we do know where you are now"

"Where would that be?" Triss gave him a sideways look, she was more than certain he was about to demand her purse from her; robbers always travelled in packs of ugly men and this group was no different.

"Standing between us and justice" he said with a demanding overtone. Triss looked over her shoulder at the man, passed out and snoring loudly against the tree.

"You're not getting him!" Triss said as she took up a defensive stance.

"Young miss, I'm not sure you're aware who it is you're dealing with. That man is dangerous and you don't want to be near him when he wakes up."

"It's all very well you saying that" she said tilting her head towards the man leaning against the tree, "he's the one whose unarmed and unconscious, while it takes fifteen of you to kill him!"

The dark presence Triss had been sensing from the moment the bandits had appeared finally made itself present. From behind the large trunk of a great oak a shadowy figure cloaked in grey robe with a hood emerged slowly, the bandits parted almost reverently and allowed the figure to stand before them. The figure slowly pulled the hood back with a pale and wrinkled hand, revealing a terrifying visage; a woman, seemingly ancient (at least in Triss's eyes), with pale skin like curdled milk and brittle grey hair, she looked down at the young sorceress with eyes that sat above a row of deep scratch marks. Placing a hand across what appeared to be a knife wound on her throat and snarled.

"Kill them both" she said in a voice that was barely audible, "bring me the Hound's head!"

The bandits drew their swords reluctantly, the archer pulled hard on bow cautiously. Triss made no move to defend herself or her patient, something that the bandits found most unsettling.

As they advanced upon her, out of nowhere an arrow whisked past her head and buried itself in the face of a skinny young lad carrying an axe two sizes too large for him. Panic ran rife through the bandits as one arrow after another found their mark inside bandit after bandit until only the archer, the old man, the shy boy and whatever creature seemed to command them remained standing.

The archer was frantic, he had notched his arrow but he could not see who it was that had been shooting at them, there was no sign of any force of numbers that matched their own and he was about to go wasting arrows on nothing but shadows and sound. The older man had his sword drawn but the blade was placed in the palm of left hand, as if preparing himself for some secret attack.

"If I was you I'd leave, right now" Triss said threateningly. The archer and the swordsman snarled and made to attack before the woman with grey hair gave a throaty snarl and stopped them in their tracks.

"Not yet" she said backing away toward the forest surroundings, her men following along with her. Iorveth waited until he was certain that they had left before he jumped down from a nearby tree and began pulling arrows out of his targets.

"You ever see anything like that?" Iorveth asked slinging another arrow in his quiver.

"Not short of a rot fiend or a vampire" she said running a hand through her hair. She was tired, hungry and her feet were sore. The road had been long so far and if their interaction with the bandits had told them anything it was they were definitely not in any land they knew. The older man's talk of a place called Volantis was aptly foreign to her and the idea that any self-respecting northerner would not know of Maribor, the second largest city in Temeria was insane.

The worry was killing her, the worry for her friends, the worry for Ciri and Geralt all of it was sinking deep into her stomach and making her sick. The bandits were just an afterthought and it wasn't as if she had never come across their type before.

"Where to now?" Iorveth asked as he slung another arrow in his quiver.

"When you've no idea where you're going, there's only one way you can be certain to travel" she replied.

"North" Iorveth said with a most ugly grin before looking down at the unconscious man, "what about the handsome prince over there?"

Triss considered carefully her next actions, she couldn't be sure that what the bandits had said was untrue. However she could not take the chance of leaving him to be killed in the middle of the forest, or else they would have made an enemy for nothing.

"Elves have very strong backs" she said as she walked toward the man, knelt down and lifted one his heavy arms around his neck. "We take him with us!"


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt strode through the streets of King's Landing. The area Davos Seaworth had left the Witcher at was called Flea Bottom; every city the world over had a Flea Bottom, an area so filled with drunks, reprobates, thieves and murderers that a man would be called a fool to walk unarmed through its streets, although not for very long. The stench was intolerable but nothing he hadn't experienced in Novigrad or Cintra.

The witcher held one hand firmly on the hilt of his dagger as he walked with caution down a narrow street, searching for the purpose of his visit to this strange land he'd found himself a part of. The peasantry of King's Landing held Geralt with wary glances, intimidating and scary men were nothing new in Flea Bottom but as usual Geralt stood out in crowd, his pale skin and white hair garnered hushed whispers from passers-by. It was nothing new to the witcher and so he grabbed a random pedestrian with broken teeth to ask for directions.

"I'm looking for a tavern…"

"There's plenty of taverns around here mister, which one you looking for?"

"One that has a mountain inside?" the witcher asked with a sideways smile. The peasant immediately pissed himself and began to quiver with uncontrolled fear, grabbing at Geralt's hand he pulled desperately as though being held by the witcher was, in itself, a death sentence.

"Mister, you don't want to find that man, I promise you will regret even being in the same room as him!"

"Just tell me where" Geralt said, his grip was like iron and so the scrawny peasant was going nowhere unless he wanted him to. The peasant pointed a shaky finger down the road, the stench of piss piercing Geralt's nose and stinging his eyes almost making him blind.

"The headsman's axe, just past the street of silk!" Geralt let him go and strode in the direction the peasant had directed him.

"How the hell did I manage to get myself into this?" the Witcher mumbled to himself, his mind casting back no less than a week ago, back to that conversation he shared with the would be monarch of this world.

"_How would you like to earn your freedom?" Stannis asked. Geralt had played this game before, back with Vilgefortz when he had manipulated the sorcerers on the isle of Thanned into revolt causing a massacre so as to get to Ciri. The Witcher had seen enough of these conversations to know when he was being moved on the board but it did not mean he had to enjoy the play._

"_That depends on what it would take to gain it" he said levelling his eyes with the stern monarch. Stannis grimaced, a facial trait Geralt was assuming he was all too familiar with, the grim king did not strike as the sort who laughed a lot, if at all. The lord of Dragonstone took his seat and scratched his beard._

"_Gregor Clegane, do you know the name?" Stannis asked as a chill wind blew across the painted table. Geralt looked up at Ser Davos who suddenly began to look very nervous indeed; his gaze passed over the red woman who seemed ill affected by the name._

"_Should I?" Geralt asked in all naivety._

"_He either has to be a fool, a foreigner or both if he doesn't know who the mountain is your grace" Ser Davos said._

"_Well you're going to show him Ser Davos" _

"_Forgive me your grace but wouldn't my time be better served accompanying you to the north?" Ser Davos's face was a mixture of both hurt and confusion. It was clear he did not understand his king's intentions but his loyalty was undoubtable. The red woman leaned back and gave a lazy look at the old knight, whatever it was that she was thinking she was obviously happy with the outcome._

"_This man claims to be a Dragon Slayer, if it's true then the Mountain should prove no challenge whatsoever." Stannis said sternly, "In the morning I set sail for the wall, you will go to King's Landing and take him with you."_

"_I'm no assassin" Geralt said sombrely._

"_Until I release you, you're whatever I say you are!" Stannis replied humourlessly, "I want you to kill Gregor Clegane and bring the head back to Ser Davos"_

"_I'm no assassin" he repeated, "I kill monsters!"_

"_Believe me Ser, that's exactly what you'll be doing!"_

Geralt pulled himself from his pondering as he reached the end of the Street of silk and saw the tavern he had been looking for. The headsman's axe was a small tavern, the Witcher could tell just from looking at the outside, the other thing he noticed was the bloodstains on the door and the corpse of the dead whore with an obvious knife wound across her throat.

Geralt cracked his neck, stepped over the corpse and through the taverns door. The witcher had seen some nefarious taverns in his time; the bar in Vizima had been bad, he killed three men that night after they had decided to pick a fight with the wrong Rivian, then there had been that tavern with the bounty hunters when he had taken to the road in search of Ciri. All in all it had been an eye opening experience for the bounty hunters, especially after Geralt sliced them to pieces.

The headsman's axe was certainly a debauched cesspit and the folk inhabiting it were certainly a few thousand leagues from any level of decency. Aside from a small selection of loosely dressed whores, who walked about the tavern with a severe sense of fear that hung around them like a bad stench, the tavern was empty but for six men sat at a large table at the rear of the establishment.

They were a grizzled bunch who all wore matching coat of arms; three black dogs on a yellow field. Geralt had seen their sort a hundred times; more cutthroat than soldiers, men possessing slow wits but just enough cunning to keep them alive and a malicious streak that made them dangerous.

He also knew the best way to beat men like that and that was to take away the person who backed them; in this case it was the large man sat at the head of the table.

Geralt strolled up to the bar and leant against it, waiting for the inn keeper to appear. As he waited patiently, he took the time to properly survey his target; the mountain was certainly bigger than average but he could not gauge him entirely, he was definitely broad shouldered and built for purpose, his muscles stood out against his chain mail and his hands practically swallowed the drinking horn he kept draining ale from before refilling.

The inn keeper finally emerged from the cellar and immediately looked as if he was about to fill his britches at the sight of Geralt. Coming around to his side, he quickly approached the Witcher and grabbed a hold of his arm.

"Ser, you can't drink here tonight, those men have demanded the tavern for themselves" he said in a shrill voice stinking of fear.

"Why?" Geralt asked plainly.

"Why? I don't ask why, if the mountain comes in and demands the sole use of the tavern for the night I don't argue, I just pray to the seven that I escape the experience with my life!" the inn keeper replied.

"What happened to the girl by the door?" Geralt asked. The inn keeper looked away as though out of shame, the Witcher could feel his hand shaking against his tunic uncontrollably as the inn keeper began to fidget with his apron almost subconsciously.

"They used her" he said his voice shaking, "then when she started crying that bald one, the one they call Eggon cut her throat, said her sobbing was too loud and told me to get rid of her"

"So you dumped her outside your front door?" Geralt said giving him a contemptible glare.

"I hoped to steer others away for the night, save on more bloodshed" he replied. The witcher nodded before pulling a gold coin from a purse given to him by Ser Davos before entering the capitol, and placed it in the inn keepers shaking hand.

"Get me a drink" Geralt said, "I'm going to solve your problem for you"

"No ser, please don't do anything, just leave please!" the inn keeper begged. Geralt pushed the inn keeper to one side and drew a small dagger from his belt and threw it with precision and accuracy at the back of a chair which seated the one called Eggon.

The inn keeper immediately began to shuffle the few whores in his employ down into the cellar, slamming the door closed after him as he ran for safety.

The Mountains men stood slowly and walked toward the witcher who did not move an inch. Surrounding him they sought to intimidate Geralt simply by their presence, they were all armed and eager to use their weapons to end him.

"Look at this cunt here eh, think you're funny cunt?" Eggon asked, spittle flying from his mouth as he squared up to Geralt who stared down at him contemptibly.

"I'm going to give you one chance" Geralt said in a low voice addressing the rest of them. "All of you can leave now, except this one and the mountain. If you do, you'll live to see your next sunrise"

The small group erupted into howling laughter, Eggon bent double from chortling hysterically, the five other nameless men-at-arms slapped each other on the back and all the while the Mountain sat growling, one hand on his great sword.

"Tell me cunt" Eggon said in an almost friendly manner, "what would happen if they did as you said and left?"

"First I'd cut your heart out" the Witcher said looking up from Eggon and staring Gregor Clegane in the eye from across the bar. "Then I'd hack the Mountains head off and give it to King Stannis"

The Mountains men all drew on Geralt, but he had a trick up his sleeve, slamming his fist into the wood panelled floor, casting the Aard sign, knocking them all unconscious to the ground.

Clegane wasted no time, hurling the table with the great strength in one arm, he rose to his full height and banging his head on the ceiling. Geralt immediately drew his steel Temerian sword, he had more of an advantage on the giant knight than Clegane realised, out in the open where the Mountain could swing he may have proved a severe obstacle for the Witcher, but here in close quarters, Geralt knew exactly how to deal with him.

Clegane struggled to draw his sword as he stalked toward Geralt, losing his temper Clegane swung at him with one of his gigantic hands but Geralt rolled through his legs quickly out of the way. As the Mountain finally drew his sword he gave an almighty swing with his great-sword, burying it deep in the wall behind his target; Clegane kicked out at Geralt, again he rolled out of the way as his opponent put his right boot, knee deep into the plaster.

Immediately Geralt sliced the tendons in Clegane's left knee, sending him screaming to the floor.

"I can't believe this is the man they all feared" Geralt said to no-one particularly. The witcher made sure not to stand too close to the monstrous man, men of his size of course had a long reach and Geralt knew better than to get within arm's length of a man who could crush his skull with his bare hands.

It took Geralt a whole five minutes of hacking away at the Mountains neck to properly severe his head from his shoulders.

Geralt looked over to the men-at-arms he had already felled with Aard, Eggon was beginning to rouse and so the Witcher set about fulfilling his promise. As the balding soldier sat up, the witcher kicked him square in the nose breaking the bone and sending blood flying all down his face. As the now flat nosed soldier began to roll about, Geralt crushed one hand under foot before pinning the other by impaling it to the floor with his sword.

Kneeling over him, the Witcher drew a knife from his belt.

"What are you staring at, cunt!" Eggon screamed before spitting blood in Geralt's face.

"You're sobbing too much" Geralt said as he wiped the blood and spit from his face. "Think I'll shut you up for good"

Ser Davos stood on the prow of the Black Bertha, he had felt uneasy since the moment they had pulled into dock earlier that day. It was not so long ago that he and his ship had been at the vanguard of a full frontal assault right here in Blackwater bay, he was certain that more than one of the dock workers that had come and gone throughout the day recognised the ship, after all sailors had a better memory than most.

"What nonsense" the old smuggler said to himself, "chances are the idiot's already dead by now."

"Ser Davos" came a gruff voice from the dock. Looking over the ships side down at the witcher who strode toward the Black Bertha with purpose, a severed head hanging from his closed fist by a clump of hair. Without saying a word, Geralt threw the mountains head up at Ser Davos, who caught it with both hands. "I take it that's the right man?"

"Yes" Davos said, amazed beyond words. "Yes, it's him."

"Does this mean my end of the bargain is fulfilled?" Geralt asked casually. Davos smiled sideways before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a purse filled with gold coins and threw it to Geralt.

"His grace does not like to see working men go empty handed, he instructed me to give this to you. If you lived."

Geralt opened the purse and found that it was filled with enough money to buy passage to wherever he wanted. It was also enough to loosen a few tongues in the right places, all he needed to do now was find the tongues that needed loosening. The witcher looked up at Davos who had now started giving orders to the crew who now set about the task of getting them out to sea.

"Now that your king has the head he wants, what does he plan on doing with it?"

"That's none of your concern but seeing as you asked, he plans on sending it to Dorne and the court of Prince Doran." Geralt had no idea who he was talking about and even less interest but he nodded and gave the old knight a gentle wave as the ship began to pull away from the dock.

"What about you Dragon Slayer, or should I say, Mountain Slayer, what will you do, now that you have your freedom?"

Geralt said nothing, he simply gave a small salute and walked back toward Fleabottom. Leaving his former patron behind.


End file.
